Valor
by Flagfish
Summary: Aragorn x Boromir x Faramir; twenty years prior to the Council of Elrond, Aragorn first encountered the sons of Denethor under unfortunate circumstances; an eight-year-old story rewritten.


This is a story I began nearly eight years ago with the help of my then-boyfriend, smitten as I were with Tolkien's world and how the films had made it come to life. I was in my mid-twenties then. I abandoned it the way you abandon a lot of things after a breakup, because they remind you too profoundly of someone you loved. Naturally, my writing had improved since then, so here's the story again, partly revised and continued at last.

XXX

"Maybe Father doesn't see it in you, but I do."

Denethor's beloved, Boromir was terribly fond of his little brother. It pained him that Faramir sought to win the Steward's favor so, all in vain as Denethor never tried to hide his disappointment.

Too introverted, perhaps, too empathic, that their father's words had hurt him more than he let on—but Boromir could tell. His large hand slid with careful affection through his little brother's hair as he slept, consoling as he'd been in boyhood, for all his strength and pride both protective and gentle here.

XXX

"And who are you," Boromir's scrutiny fell on Aragorn, filled with suspicion. "And what have you to do with Minas Tirith?"

He was in a sober state of mind, not having much rested after several weeks of travel to Lothlorien from his home in Gondor. And to what purpose? To receive help from these strange people—these _elves_,and even stranger folk—this Elrond—whose little stronghold seemed almost irrelevant in comparison with mighty Gondor—

"He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Elrond replied, and as he went on to describe whence the ranger came and from whom he'd descended, Aragorn couldn't help grinning with knowing recollection.

Maybe Boromir did not remember Aragorn, _but Aragorn remembered Boromir_.

They'd encountered one another maybe twenty years before. At that time, the ranger had called himself Thorongil, and it was around then he'd first heard of the Dunlending. He was in Bree, having his usual dinner and beer at the Pony when a stout hobbit burst in through the door, panic in his eyes.

"The thin man, he's just there—!" The hobbit shouted. Heads turned toward him from the bar.

_He's here…!_ Strider heard a voice murmur from somewhere behind him.

"Where have you seen him? What have you seen?" The barmaid asked, her voice tense with fear.

"Two—maybe three," the hobbit mumbled, his small body trembling, "he—" he made a gesture with his hands— "—he picked them up, shouted something—threatened them…! Then just—_threw them down…!_"

Low murmurs all through the tavern.

"Did he leave?" The barmaid whispered, gripping a dish in her hands, "Is he still about?"

The small one lowered his brow, slowly nodding.

At his table, Strider fixed his gaze on his drink, long fingers tracing wet paths in the frosted glass. Who was this _thin man_, and what was he doing in here? He rose from his seat and left a few coins on the table, then walked to the bar.

"Beg your pardon," he said in a low tone, "but what did this man look like?"

The two looked up at the dark ranger for a few seconds more before the hobbit spoke up.

"Thin he was. Not tall for a man. And bearded. He looked rough, like he'd been traveling."

Strider thanked him, then walked out the door, aware of the two pairs of eyes curiously following.

After that day, the ranger began hearing more accounts of the thin man—so many that he'd grown increasingly curious with time. Who was he, and why was he after the hobbits? He seemed quite interested in learning about them and the nearby Shire, disturbingly so. Strider had made it his mission to track him down and question him.

After a year of following the thin man in the North, Hollin, and across southern Gondor, the ranger had finally come face to face with him in Pelargir. But this was not before he first encountered the two sons of the Steward of Gondor.

It wasn't a pleasant encounter. Strider had tracked the thin man to the Olde Bath House Inn, where he'd seen him request a room. Following in his tracks, he planned to request a room there as well, unaware that the Dunlending had noticed his presence and planned to put a stop to his mission. In fact, on requesting his room, the thin man had notified the Innkeeper of the presence of a strange, dark man who seemed to be following him, and requested that he be reported to authorities and observed for unusual behavior.

Not an hour later, the authorities—the heirs to the Steward of Gondor—had Aragorn by the wrists—and were taking him into custody.

Quite annoyed, Strider grit his teeth, asking to be released and demanding to know why he was being taken.

"We wish to question and examine you," the younger man replied as calmly as he could while straining to hold the ranger's wrists in place. The older man was quickly wrapping a sturdy rope about his wrists, to Strider's astonishment.

"We've received word that you've been harassing a guest at this Inn," he said.

Strider sighed with a great deal of exasperation.

"You misunderstand," he muttered, shifting with annoyance in his binds.

The older of the two appeared rather pleased with himself to have him bound this way. "This is the second report we've received about a man of your description," he replied while tightening the knot.

"Keep watch of this one, Faramir," he added after finally stepping away, and then turned to take his leave.

This wasn't anything Strider couldn't get out of—it may take some time, an hour or two if he wanted to be discreet about it—and he would free himself. He'd only begun pondering whether it was worthwhile to try reasoning with Faramir when there came a subtle but very distinct sound from somewhere nearby.

The both of them went quiet. Faramir turned slowly in the direction of the sound, reaching for his sword.

"Untie me and I can help," Strider offered in vain, aware it would sound like a perfect excuse, and that his watcher wouldn't buy it.

Faramir had been a fair guard, but he was ill prepared for the cunning of the thin man—by the time Strider had managed to free himself on his own, there'd ensued a struggle between the two that left Faramir injured and disarmed.

Strider had knowledge of healing, but this would have to wait, as already the thin man had fled and any chance the ranger had to capture him was slipping away by the moment. He went after him immediately, he chased him down the hall and out the front door of the inn, to the bewilderment of all present there, and hadn't caught up with him until they'd gone well into the heart of the city.

Not so discreet now; course, neither was Strider.

This all had been vastly amusing to Boromir, whose sword now pointed menacing just at the nape of Strider's neck, simultaneously irritated and also impressed as he were that somehow he'd managed to free himself after all. Also, he was visibly pleased with himself yet again to have caught him, Strider knew that much without even turning around.

There were two prisoners, then, it was all well and good, and now to figure out what it was all about. Boromir thought so, anyway, until he found Faramir injured.

Strider had a story; the stranger had a story, too.

Boromir fought all the while to suppress awareness that _maybe this was too much for baby brother_, and convince himself that it was beyond anyone's help, and not true indication of Faramir's ability. He knelt at his brother's side, examining the wound, not listening when Strider tried explaining he had ability to heal.

Either way, Denethor shouldn't know. Boromir would lie for him, he'd say they'd captured the prisoners together.

Faramir gave report that it was the stranger who'd attacked him; maybe Strider's story checked out, after all.

_To be continued…_


End file.
